


Don't Raise Heroes

by katydidmischief (cassiejamie)



Series: Fathers, Sons, and Heroes [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chris Pike Raises Jim Kirk, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiejamie/pseuds/katydidmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim is six when he meets Chris Pike on a warm Thursday afternoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted a WIP in years, but I'm doing it as a way to get my ass in gear and write the rest of this. That said, some tags are for things that happen later in the fic and some tags will be added as chapters are posted/I figure out what'll come next.

(They were never friends.

Winona Kirk and Christopher Pike, until the day Chris had walked up to her home and politely explained that he was there to ask about the _Kelvin_ , had never met each other, hadn't been star-crossed lovers or friends nor had she and George been in some sort of long-distance threesome with Pike. Hell, that first meeting had ended very shortly after it'd begun with a door slammed unceremoniously in his face.

A feat given how the door always caught on the rug before sliding into the frame.

So, no, despite what the news reels would eventually say, what the magazines would eventually report, Winona hadn't contacted Chris that day because they were friends.

She'd contacted him because they weren't.)

It's the middle of the night and Chris is genuinely tempted to ignore the comm insistently chirping away on his bedside table; he'd been up for the last thirty-six dealing with the ship's repairs and another twelve wrangling a few of his wayward crewmembers before they'd gotten into trouble with the Captain. He'd been promised eleven uninterrupted hours to sleep. And shower. And eat. And possibly find a good fuck.

Still...

But the chirp stops with his hand mid-way to the device and he lets out a sigh of relief before wrapping his arms securely around his pillow.

Which is, of course, when it starts again.

"Pike," he grunts and only just manages to not bark out something along the lines of ' _This better be important._ '

"I'm sorry to bother you this late... or early, Commander, but I have Captain Winona Kirk in custody and she's asked to speak with you."

Chris says, "One minute," and once the comm is on the table, pinches hard at his hand.

Yup. Awake.

"Needed a second to wake up," he only semi-lies, and asks, "What's going on?"

The man on the other end, a 'Fleet Investigative Officer named Perkins, repeats that Winona's asked for him and adds, "Unfortunately we cannot discuss pending charges over a commlink."

"Pending charges?"

"Yes, Commander."

"We're not talking about misdemeanors here, are we?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny."

And yeah, that gets Chris moving like a bat out of hell. _Pending charges? What the actual fuck?_ he thinks as he falls out of bed with all of the grace of a newborn colt, stumbles to his dresser, and remembers he needs to actually tell the guy that he's on his way rather than let him listen to Chris bash his way around the apartment.

So much for his free time this shore leave: it's three hours to Riverside from San Fran, another twenty to walk from the shuttle docks to the holding cells, and fifteen minutes more to get through the verification procedures and get access to the actual cells.

It's five in the goddamn morning.

And apparently, either Winona Kirk has taken up barroom brawls or something infinitely more sinister has happened. (She's bruised, one eye swollen shut and there's specks of blood on her shirt and hands; there's a splint on one wrist and she's wearing torn clothing. This, by the way, is where Chris's head is filled with the noise of a red alert.)

He doesn't get a word out, but she does, and once she does, the entire story comes tumbling into the open. Frank and Jim and the white-out rage she'd felt when Jim had screamed, his little arm bones breaking under the crushing weight of an adult hand. She'd killed him, with his own regulation phaser, and now she's gotta figure out what to do with Jim.

This is where her eyes fall onto him and Chris swallows.

"You aren't suggesting..."

"I am."

It throws him for a loop. "Captain, with all due respect, there has to be someone in your family willing to take care of him for now."

She snorts—she knows that Chris is well aware of the answer to that.

He breathes deeply a few times, rubs at his eyes and wills his addled mind to form coherent thoughts; she adds, "I know it's a lot, what I'm asking of you, and I know I have no right to ask it. But..." she cocks her head to the side, "You're like George. I slammed doors, threw you out, yelled, and you just came back the next day. You're devoted to the 'fleet, but you're not obsessed."

Chris swallows again. "Ma'am..."

"I'm going to prison, Commander," she interrupts, the shine of tears gathering in her eyes, "I made my choice when I picked up that phaser. I knew the path I'd end up on and it is worth it, for Jim. Please. I'm asking you to not let him end up in the system. I'm asking you to make sure he doesn't end up in some home were he's ignored and left to learn right and wrong on the street. I'm asking you to take care of the one person George loved most in the universe."

She's using her trump card, his admiring of George, and they both know it. They're both silent, regarding each other, and Chris closes his eyes for a moment when it gets to be too much.

"Yes."

(Captain Hayworth is less than pleased, which is understatement, and shocked, which is right on the credits: it's five days until they ship out on their next tour, there's retrofitting to be done and a mountain of paperwork, and his highly competent XO is comming him after being MIA for 24 hours from an Admiral's office in Iowa.

"Son, you're going to need to say that again."

"I won't be back before the launch, Cap." Chris rubs his forehead. "I've had a family emergency and I'm trying to get everything in order, but the paperwork is going to take longer than expected to go through."

"And you can't get back here in the meantime?"

Chris looks at Admiral Archer who explains, "The emergency relates to a custodial issue. Unfortunately, the child can't leave the state until we get the paperwork filed and unless we put the child in the care of the state, there's no one else to assume temporary guardianship."

Okay, now that is an interesting bit of information, because Craig is incredibly sure that Chris Pike's family is from California. His eyes narrow and Archer glares right back; clearly, this is not going to garner any answers.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he says after a beat. Seriously, Chris is a dedicated, intelligent officer and he's on the fast track for a command of his own. Hell, he's one of the younger First Officers in Starfleet and more than a few of the other Captains have been eyeing him for themselves. Whatever is going on, clearly it's approved by the higher ups, but he sincerely hopes it doesn't fuck up what Pike's worked so hard for.

"Me too, sir." Chris twitches. "Me too.")

* * *

Here's the next bit of information that is not common knowledge: while Captain Marcus had recruited him, it was Admiral Archer who'd convinced him to join Starfleet. He'd been an eighteen-year old kid fresh out of high school, a chip on his shoulder, and no one to impress. His mother had died at thirty, leaving behind three kids and a husband who worked until Chris entered high school and then proceeded to drink himself into the grave.

His sisters had both married young to get out of the house, never graduating themselves, and had two kids each by the time they buried their father. They'd been unable (or unwilling, maybe) to take care of him and between them, pooled together enough cash to get him out of Mojave to San Francisco where he had a much higher chance of finding work. They sent him care packages now and again, but they were too rare to get by on and he ended up sitting in a chair on the recruiting center simply for the free coffee and cookies.

(Marcus had given the speech and preened about it later; Archer had called the man a blowhard, taken Chris out to the nearest buffet so the kid could stuff his face, and then explained that Starfleet is its own kind of family with its own kind of rewards.

"We take care of our own," he says, "and while the Academy is filled with competition, no one messes with one cadet alone—you fuck with one, you fuck with all."

It's a lesson he will learn over and over again, in different ways and at different times, and he learns it all over again when Winona makes that call.)

Archer had taken Chris under his wing, so to speak, and helped him out, mentored him, and now, despite the fact that Archer was only in Riverside to oversee the construction of the first ship in the new Constitution-class heavy cruiser and was not meant to be involved in any criminal investigations—those went directly through the SIB branch out of Des Moines, whose officers reported directly to the office of the Judge Advocate General—he's elbow deep in this mess.

Because he takes care of his own.

He just wishes he'd been there to take care of Winona. He promises himself that she'll get the best damned lawyer the 'fleet can give her and he'll fight like hell at her side.

For now, he's got multiple PADDs in front of him, two comm units and the largest coffee his secretary had been able to find... better known as the carafe directly out of the machine. Okay, so they're pouring it into mugs, but somewhere in the mess, there's at least one really pissed off cook that, once again, his coffee machine has been fucked with.

There's a minimum of three dozen documents the lawyers have drawn up to go through and Jonathan swallows another mouthful of black, delicious life-blood as the chrono over the door chimes. He glances over at the twenty-seven year old passed out on the edge of the desk and slams his fist down on the top with a smirk.

Chris snaps awake. "I'm up! I'm up. What time is it?"

"Time for you to drink some more coffee. Here," he pushes a PADD over, "you need to sign in a few places on this one before it can be submitted."

There's a nod and a few flicks of his finger along the screen, then Chris sets down the mug, announcing, "This is crazy. I'm crazy."

"No more than the rest of us." Archer shrugs and sighs, and says, "If I could, Chris, I'd take him, but I'm old, crotchety, and I doubt my stubborn dog would be interested in a six year old. And, God knows, if this were to get out, he'd have dozens of takers, but Winona asked you. She wants you."

"And I know fuck-all about children."

"I have every faith you'll figure it out."

"You're a real jackass sometimes. Sir."

The swat to the back of the head isn't exactly unexpected, and Chris laughs a little at the gesture, relaxing for a moment. Then he looks back at the PADD in his hand and, with a yawn, gets back to work, managing to get through another PADD's worth of documents before daylight starts to peek through the windows.

* * *

Jim meets Chris on a warm Thursday afternoon.

It's been two weeks of raging back and forth databursts, calls, and meetings to get them to this point and Chris, admittedly, has spent several of those days itching with multiple emotions. He's anxious and worried and freaked out, and also, he's concerned for Jim in ways he knows will grow more intense with time; no, he doesn't already love Jim like a son—it's not a switch to be flipped—but he'd heard that Jim wasn't in a foster situation as he'd expected, but a group home.

(He knows about group homes, though not through first-experience, and he knows that it is the last place Jim needs to be right now.)

They'd been in the same house a while ago, a handful of times, when Jim was barely a year old. He'd clung to his mother, little fingers in the fabric of her shirt, and screamed loudly if Chris got too close: even then, he'd sensed the danger.

Now, Jim sits on a bench outside the home, little feet dangling over the edge of the seat and a rainbow of bruises down one arm that disappear into a splint. _The break has been dealt with, but with kids, you never take the chance of a re-injury_ , he'd been told, _He'll wear the splint for two weeks until the bone is completely hardened._

He looks small and tired for such a young child, worn at the edges. But there's still spirit in his eyes and that gives Chris hope: Jim's not broken yet. A fact which is driven home when Chris introduces himself and Jim holds his gaze without flinching.

"My mom says you're going to be my guardian."

There's a butterfly bandage over one of Jim's eyebrows that is coming loose and without thinking, Chris presses the edge back against skin; it must have been infected if the docs are letting it stay open to drain, and he nods as he sits and lays his hands in his lap (as he's been told to do: no sudden movements, keep hands visible at all times, keep your voice level modulated...)

"Yes."

"She's going away," he says, "She's not ever coming back."

There's a great big lump in Chris's throat suddenly, hearing the finality in the kid's voice and wondering just whom had told Jim this. He knows it wasn't Winona—CPS has allowed all of one phone call between the two and Chris had seen the transcript of it—and it sure as hell wasn't him. That leaves someone at the home; for a moment he feels rage, then forces himself to tamp it down before Jim picks up on it.

"We don't know that for sure, okay?" That gets him a nod. "Until we do, though, your mom wants you to come live with me."

Jim's eyes are saucer-round, yet he still gives another nod and Chris relaxes for the first time since arriving at the group home. He knows this will not be easy, but at least they've cleared the first hurdle, and he glances toward the social worker loitering nearby.

Time for the next obstacle.

The drive over to the holding cells isn't terribly long nor terribly short. Jim, for his part, sits in the booster seat in the back, his belongings having been packed into the trunk (a suitcase full of clothes, a backpack of toys and a My First PADD loaded with books that are beyond a typical six-year-old's reading level. Except for Goodnight Moon, but that's a classic), but for a single stuffed tribble that he kneads with his hands as he stares out the window at the town going by. He pays no attention to Chris's repeated glances back and Pike doesn't know if that's good or bad or nothing at all, but it eases his nerves either way.

Getting through the sign-in process has been streamlined for Chris and the social worker, but it takes a few extra minutes to get through with Jim—children aren't exactly a common occurrence—and his tribble, and then they're being walked to an interview room by a guard. There, Winona sits, her bruises already much better than the day Chris had arrived, and she smiles broadly at Jim.

The effect is instantaneous as he smiles back and waves from his place up in the social worker's arms. He works to wiggle free, but after so many years in the field, Nancy is able to adapt and keep Jim in the hold until he gives up and settles again. (It's a ruse. He's just biding his time and Chris can see it.)

"Mommy!" He greets before kicking his foot out 'innocently' into Nancy's stomach and dropping to the floor to run to Winona.

He's stopped by the hand of a guard, pulling Jim back as he squawks in indignation, and Nancy draws Jim back up with a soft scolding about kicking. He barely hears it as he starts to yell and push against her and reach for his mother.

Chris yanks him away from Nancy, and moves out of the room, holding Jim as close as he's allowed until the boy stops crying and then Chris quietly turns to one of the SIOs and tells the guy, "He wants to hug his mother. Please. Just a minute." Jim's head has fallen to his shoulder and between the red eyes and the sniffling, he looks so utterly pathetic that the officer gives his approval.

(The look Winona gives him once Jim is safely in her grip, his face buried in the fabric of her jumpsuit, is one of gratitude. She mouths something to him too, but he can't tell what and she doesn't repeat it; she turns her attentions back to Jim and when the guards make an aborted move to force Jim back to Chris, she growls at them.

Pike wonders why it surprises them. After all, she'd killed for her boy.

Still, he takes Jim back, moving slowly as to allow the two to a few extra seconds, then, for reasons he cannot name, he kisses her cheek and promises, "I'll take good care of him," before throwing a blanket Nancy hands him over Jim's back.

He stops in the doorway, looking back as the lawyers settle down in the now-vacated seats and he locks gazes with her; Jim is pressed safely into his arms, his blue eyes disappearing under drooping, sleepy lids, and with the blanket wrapped over his body, he is warm and protected.

This is what Winona chooses to commit to memory, what she chooses to etch into her thoughts and keep forever.

This is what Winona thinks of on worse nights in her cell: her little boy and the man who would be his only steady protector in an interview room in Riverside.

This is, in the end, the last time she will ever see Jim.)


	2. Interlude One

Jim doesn't really understand what's happening. He can't—it's beyond what a six year old can process and in such a short amount of time too—so Chris figures, as the shuttle lands in San Francisco, that they are both in for some rough days.

For the moment, however, Jim is quiet and contemplative, clinging to Chris as they disembark; his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of the docks and the skyscrapers beyond. This is a much difference place than Riverside, where the largest and tallest buildings resided in the shipyard and much everything else was one or two floor farmhouses set some distances from each other on wide, flat plains. The sheer number of people here is larger too, the bustle of this particular depot normal for San Francisco at rush hour as commuters make their way home or make their way to late shifts.

"Okay, Jim?"

"Yeah," he answers without taking his eyes from the bright glint of the tallest building in the distance. "What's that?"

It takes Chris a minute to figure out where Jim is pointing, then says, "Starfleet Headquarters."

"Are there ships there?"

"Little ones. For air defense."

"Oh." Jim nods as if he understands, but Chris genuinely doubts that: Jim's reading material has been mostly history books, mathematical texts, and warp drive schematics. Whether or not he can grasp it all, Chris doesn't know, but it holds the boy's interest and that alone assures him that Jim actually does enjoy his schoolwork despite what the teachers had reported.

Lack of comprehension, his ass. He knows what the missing assignments mean now and it has nothing to do with an inability to make sense of the work.

"Chris!" someone yells, forcing his attention away from the darker thoughts and back to the problem at hand. With half a city to cross before reaching his assigned apartment in Officer Housing, they would need transport which he had not arranged before boarding, but from the looks of it, Archer had.

Richard Barnett stood in the distance, eyeing Jim with some concern; Chris knows that few people outside of the Admiralty are aware of the situation right now, but if Richard's here, he must have had some notice. After all, the car at the man's back does appear to have a booster seat jammed into the rear seat.

Chris lets out a breath and begins walking toward his friend, the suitcase clutched in one hand and his duffel slung across his back. Jim clung to his shoulder, legs wrapped tightly around Chris' waist, and he's clearly less than pleased with this new person who's staring quite intently at them. (Chris tells him, "It's okay, Jim. He's a friend," but it does little to ease the tension from the boy.)

"Well, this is... insane," Richard announces once Chris is near enough.

"It was me or the state."

"You've always been a sucker for the Morals."

The Morals, the unwritten code of the Academy and Starfleet. The code that includes Starfleet taking care of its own, and the code that Chris adheres to as rigidly as he does the Prime Directive.

"You would have done the same thing and don't even argue that you wouldn't have—I've met your sister." Chris politely doesn't elaborate on the fact that Rich had been the one to raise his baby sister while his miscreant father served time in multiple jails across the Chicago area and his mother was institutionalized. They'd been sent to foster homes and group homes and family members until he'd turned 18 and taken over custody of Sarah, so no, Richard Barnett would not have been able to stand idly by while a child slipped through the cracks if he'd had the chance to stop it.

"Yeah, well..." Rich holds out a hand to Jim, "Hello."

Jim instantly looks to Chris for approval and with a smile, he's told, "This jerk is my friend Richard, Jim. You can say hello," but Jim turns his face into Chris's neck and jams himself tighter to the dark fabric of Chris's sweater. He trembles slightly and though Chris feels unsure about Jim's reaction, Rich just shrugs it off and takes the bags from his friend.

"Let's get you home."


	3. Part Two

(Here's the other thing that all the major news media will eventually get very wrong: Chris never— _never_ —intended to have children. Maybe marry, but that had always been an abstract concept at the back of his mind that hadn't ever really been in his plans. Absolutely, however, no children.

The news media, of course, will say everything opposite: his atypical childhood making him crave a normal family with a wife and the two-point-three kids and the picket fence. That he'd been excited when Jim was given to him and that he was quick to get Jim to call him Dad, buying up a sweet little blue rowhouse a few kilometers from Starfleet HQ. They will say he even thought of adopting another child.

Eventually, when this all comes to pass after Nero, Chris will laugh himself hoarse because the truth is it was anything like they assume.

It was months of hell first.)

"Here, drink this."

"Is there alcohol in it?"

"Seeing as it's not even 0900 yet and you're already twenty minutes late for a meeting with the Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet, no."

Chris thunks his head against his desk as his best friend snickers; he knew how he looked, his hair haphazard, his uniform just barely skirting the edge of proper. He's exhausted and it shows on his face and in his movements.

"He's still having the nightmares?"

"Night terrors now. And he _bites_." Without picking his head up, Chris unzips and pulls at the neck of his uniform, revealing the neat, oval mark on his shoulder.

Rich winces, remembering one kid at the fourth or fifth group home who'd kicked, spit, bitten, and cursed his way through his nightmares until it'd come tumbling out that his abuse hadn't been strictly physical and he'd been transferred to a hospital for treatment. Granted, Chris has been assured that Jim had been spared that particular pain, but that kind of lashing out, even in sleep, is hard not only on the person with the terrors but those caring for them.

"You didn't report to Medical."

Chris shifts, rubbing at his eyes as he reaches for the offered mug of coffee, black and perfect. "It happened this morning. It was Medical or briefing," he admits before chugging his drink and getting to his feet. "I'll head down once I've gotten through this meeting."

Rich wants to argue—if Chris had any intentions of reporting the injury to Medical, he would have gone there first and used it as an explanation for his lateness with the Admirals—but Chris is striding out of the tiny office he'd been assigned four months ago while acclimating to his new position as an instructor, and he isn't looking back. So he grumbles to himself instead and takes off after Chris, wondering aloud his speculations about this meeting.

After all, they hadn't been told what the hell it was about, simply to show up at the Daystrom conference room at 0830 and be prompt about it.

It takes a brisk walk (read: a flat-out run) to reach the conference room in ten minutes, but it's enough to get them there before Vice Admiral Blackwell sends out a search party.

"Gentlemen. You're late."

"I apologize, sir," Chris immediately responds, his voice dripping with sincerity.

"I trust the delay was unavoidable, but since we're now pressed for time, have a seat." Blackwell points to the two vacant chairs on the opposite side of the half-filled table; it positions them to be under the full scrutiny of the Admiralty and it's more than a little unnerving. (They're a half an hour late and admittedly, Tony Blackwell thinks a bit of nerve-wracking his two star Commanders is good retribution.)

"Again, sirs, I apologize for the delay. Commander Barnett was only held up because of my..."

"Relax, Chris. This isn't a hearing," Archer soothes and he frowns a little that Chris hasn't figured out what's happening from Jonathan's mere presence. He looks tired and he flicks his eyes to Blackwell to communicate that something is up and to not keep the boys waiting too long.

Blackwell nods. "Admiral Archer is correct. This meeting has been called by myself and my compatriots to congratulate you both on exemplary performances both on your previous tours of duty aboard the _U.S.S. Armstrong_ and as instructors," he pauses, leaning forward to add, "Normally I'd blather on about other accomplishments and whatnot, but, again, time crunch, so let's get right to it.

"You two have managed to exceed every goal set to you. You go above and beyond and you are clearly destined for some great things, gentlemen. Given that, it is only right to elevate you both to ranks commensurate to your skills and experience. Congratulations, Captains."

Chris blinks. "I'm sorry, sir, could you say that again?" Rich claps him on the back at that, smiling broadly.

"You're a Captain, son. You'll be taking the _U.S.S. Endeavor_ out for her next tour."

Slowly, Chris absorbs it until he realizes he, too, is smiling and he starts to thank them all profusely, promising to not let any of them down, when his communicator's chime cuts into the chatter.

It's Jim's teacher.

_"He's... Commander, I'm not sure what to do. Medical is enroute, but he's wedged himself under a cabinet and I can't get him to come out on his own and if I try, I may hurt him."_

"I've got a car waiting downstairs to take you over to the Academy. We'll arrange meetings later to work out particulars. Get moving," Blackwell says only once, and Chris tells her, "I'm on my way," and then both Chris and Rich are racing through the halls, the lifts, the stairwells...

If their run before was flat-out, well, this is someone having lit a fire under their asses and it's not a good thing. Archer's taking up the rear as all three speed across the Academy campus toward the Starfleet Dependents' Elementary School. Some poor cadet is nearly mowed down in the hurry, and only when they reach the school do they pause for barely a second to note the many sets of eyes staring at them in surprise and confusion.

Inside, they're led right to Jim's classroom, which has been emptied of the other kids and been filled instead with a handful of Medical personnel.

"Commander, oh, thank God," Jim's teacher greets.

But Chris is too focused on the people clustered tightly around the spot Jim's chosen to use as his hiding place. He nods at her, knowing she's spoken yet unable to comprehend the words, and he marches toward the elevated cabinet at the back of the room, pushing through the white shirts. There, he kneels, looking at the boy and saying, "Hey, Jim."

"Hi, Chris."

"You ready to come out?"

Jim shakes his head violently.

"All right, then I'm just going to sit here until you are, okay?" 

"Kay."

This is how Chris spends the immediate post-promotion period: sitting on the floor in Jim's classroom, glaring at the Medical personnel to stay away while guarding the kid from anyone who would scare him. It is not the dinner he'd envisioned for them to celebrate, but it's worth it when Jim eventually crawls out from under the cabinet as the others start to get twitchy and into Chris' arms.

* * *

The day of the _Endeavor_ 's launch coincides with Winona's sentencing.

It's by her own doing that the only contact she's had with Chris and Jim over the last six months has been through the lawyers, despite a few very insistent requests that Pike be permitted to speak with her directly, and Chris has to admit that he's more than a little upset with her for basically cutting Jim out of her life. It's not malicious, he knows this, and it's not because she wanted to do it, but because she believes this the best way to protect Jim.

So it is unsurprising that as Chris works to get their quarters aboard the ship set for launch, he is called to his ready room for an urgent incoming transmission from Jason Hughes. The lawyer, an older man in Starfleet Dress Grays, is one of the JAG's finest and had been a personal friend of Robau's. He'd taken on Winona's case the minute it'd passed into the unit, helped along by a private civilian lawyer Archer had contracted.

"How's she doing?" he asks as he settles into his chair.

"Well, considering."

Chris forces himself to be calm. "What's the verdict?"

"Twenty-five years in the New Zealand Penal Colony."

"Twenty-five years? That's a bit excessive considering the mitigating circumstances, isn't it?"

Jason sighs, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his forehead. "It would have been life, but the judge felt that it was too severe a punishment. He cut it down with eligibility for parole set for ten years on good behavior."

"We're appealing, I assume."

"Gary and I are going to start on that paperwork tomorrow. Right now, he's down at the courthouse getting the transfer papers signed and then he's going to meet up with Patrick and Jan to iron out a few details on the custody agreement."

"They terminated her rights?"

"All physical and legal rights to Jim Kirk are now yours. The adoption will be finalized on March 22nd. As we discussed before, Winona would like updates now and again to be sent to Gary's office, but she will continue to maintain her distance."

"Understood. Please, again, let her know that I would very much prefer if she would allow contact at least with Jim. He's not exactly benefiting from her absence." And that's putting it mildly: her continued lack of communication has led Jim to various (very untrue) assumptions, some of which have unsettled Jim to the point where he spent a week straight sneaking into Chris's room at night to sleep on the floor beside the bed simply to be sure that he wouldn't be abandoned by yet another person.

"I'll do my best to talk to her," Jason leaves off the 'but she is exceedingly stubborn' that they're both already thinking.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Anyway, my congratulations on the promotion and your assignment. Safe travels, Captain."

Chris smiles and thanks him, ending the transmission with all of ten seconds to spare before the door to his ready room opens and Jim is there with Number One. (He is grateful for how quickly Jim had taken to Chris's new XO, grateful that the Admirals had seen fit to give Chris early access to his crew roster so he could gently introduce the command staff.

He doesn't want to think of what the fallout could have been if he'd been forced to bring Jim aboard the ship without any prior meetings. Of course, the thought dives into the forefront of his mind anyway and he suppresses a shudder because, yeah, _that_ would have been a disaster, pure and simple.)

"Hey, Jim," he says as he gets up, and lifts Jim to his side, "How was your tour of the ship?"

Jim shrugs. "S'okay."

That gets a raised eyebrow from Chris. "Just okay?" Honestly... Jim's been talking about the mission for the last two weeks. His classmates had started covering their ears and walking away whenever Jim got started, to the point that his teacher had recorded an incident of it to send to Chris.

Jim's response is to bury his face into Chris's gold tunic.

Ah.

"Number One, could you give us a moment?" he asks, voice a mixture of politeness and command, and once the door has closed again, he settles back into his chair with Jim tucked into his lap, his head laying against Chris's shoulder.

For a moment, there's silence, then Chris manages to find the words. "Jim, there are a lot of things out here in space that can be dangerous. But this mission is all science research, and we won't be far from any Starfleet Port. We'll be hundreds of kilometers from the neutral zone and the Klingons, and I promise I will not let anything happen to you."

"And you too?

Chris doesn't hesitate to reply, "In a year, we'll both be back on Earth, safe and sound, okay?"

"Okay."

Even as Jim speaks, as he arranges himself more comfortably in Chris's lap, Chris knows that Jim doesn't really believe him and he can't really argue that. Jim's one and only travel on a starship prior to this had resulted in the death of his father and considering his ever-present fear of abandonment, he can't really grasp the reality that attacks like the one made on the _Kelvin_ are extremely rare.

For now, Chris decides, experience is going to have to speak louder than words.

* * *

Oh, hell fucking _no_.

These idiots did _not_ just fire on his ship.

"Red alert," he orders from his chair, staring out the viewscreen at the ship that's decided it a good idea to attach a Federation vessel, "Evasive maneuvers! Arm all forward weapons."

Commands issued, they hop to, shouting, "Yes, sir!"

There's incoming now and the ship rocks under the assault, throwing everyone sideways in their chairs; another volley is caught by the _Endeavor_ 's return fire, but at least one torpedo gets through, slamming into the ship with enough force to throw Chris clear out of his chair.

There's another volley, then another. It's fifteen minutes before he can stop yelling about defensive measures and swap over to offense. He orders Houser to hail these morons, but the other ship doesn't answer and he takes twenty seconds to decide that if they're going to go for a shoot first-talk later approach, well, he's going to go with a cripple the damned ship defense.

"Lock phasers onto their main drive!"

"Doing it now, sir," he's told, and then, "Ready to fire on your mark, sir."

"Now."

The attacking vessel reels back, a spray of sparks and metal and engineering spilling out into the empty stretch of space between them; there's a flicker of lights through the ports along one side and finally, Chris can make out the name _Gemini_ along the side.

"Do you want us to hail them now, sir?" Lieutenant Pacheco, a bruise already forming over one temple from striking his console.

Chris shakes his head—the _Gemini_ is a known pirate vessel operating in this sector and the crew is unlikely to respond, even without any other choice—and says, "Cancel the red alert. Number One, contact Starfleet. Report what just happened and who we've got in our sights. Then speak with the nearest station, let them know they'll need a tow ship and a squadron of security officers."

She nods and moves to Houser's station, directing the communications officer to patch through both calls while Chris tugs at the edge of his tunic, wiping at the blood now dripping down the side of his face. He's not dizzy or nauseous, but he knows it's just a matter of time before one of his conniving subordinates alerts Boyce to the fact that the Captain is bleeding and he'll be dragged down, kicking and screaming, to Medical.

"Captain, their impulse engines are coming online."

"Warning shot over the bow, Mr. Pacheco."

The engines power down.

Thankfully, the crew of the _Gemini_ don't attempt anything further, which the arresting officers later tell him was their one intelligent move: "The ship's held together on hopes and prayer. Another good shot from you and it would have gone down in hellfire."

"Well, considering their known cargo, hopefully my restraint will lead us to some family reunions."

"You and me both, sir."

Opening his mouth to speak again, Chris closes it with a snap and pulls a face. "If you'll excuse me, Ensign, my CMO is attempting to sneak up on me."

"I don't sneak."

The ensign grins and ends the transmission, leaving Chris to face Philip Boyce head on. "I was going to come down once..."

"You're bleeding. From the head. Get. Moving."

Pacheco snickers to himself and Number One is giving him one of her flat looks that's tempered with a bit of amusement in the glint of her eyes; Houser is looking at anything but him and he knows she's hoping he won't figure out that she's the one who'd blown the whistle on him.

"Number One, you have the conn," he relents, "I'll be in Medical."

He's shoved into the lift before he can get anything else out, Phil shoving him along, and as the doors shut, Chris lets out a long breath. "You are a huge pain in my ass."

"Please. I didn't actually get you off the Bridge for the head wound. I got you off the Bridge to clean you up before I take you to your kid." The doors open and Phil drags him out, down the hall, and into Boyce's personal office where he's sat down and Phil adds, "Jim's panicking and I figure we've got about five more minutes before that boy goes nova," as he cleans then heals the wound.

"Jim... Damnit, is he okay?"

"He's fine. He was on the observation deck with Ensign Harville when it started and got a good sized egg on his head—it's already reducing on its own—but he's been asking for you every chance he gets." Phil steps back and looks over the fresh, pink skin. "Lose the shirt and let's go."

Chris just about rips the tunic in half to get it off and hurtles it into a corner, glances down to ensure there isn't any large blood spots on the dark undershirt, before following Phil out into the main treatment room.

Where Jim is trembling in Harville's arms.

"Hey, buddy."

It seems like Jim never touches the floor as he flings himself into Chris's hold, and he clutches at him, muttering, "Daddy," over and over until Chris realizes Jim's not talking about George.

Someone pushes a chair up behind Chris and then Phil's pushing him down into it, and Chris lifts a hand to Jim's hair.

(It was never a switch to be flipped, loving Jim. It came in stages, in moments, and now Chris realizes, it was also inevitable: he never would have just been Jim's guardian. That's not what Jim needed nor could Chris ever have kept that distance.

He breathes in, heart tight in his chest, while Jim sniffles into his neck.)

"It's okay, son. We're both okay."

And they are.


	4. Interlude Two

Chris never stops sending Winona letters and pictures. Never.

Every chance he gets, he's sending packets of information so huge that Jason's and Gary's PADDs can barely handle the load: there's updates and revised allergy information, and photos from school or from aboard the _Endeavor_ ; there's photos from a trip to the Mojave and a trip to Vulcan. He writes her letters that he wonders if she even reads, but it makes him feel better to write them so he keeps doing it.

Jim, however, never sends so much as a note.

After all, she'd abandoned him, she'd left him, and she'd never spoke to him, and though Chris suggests Jim send her something, he can't force Jim to do what he does himself.

So Chris continues to send it all, finding time at night when Jim's asleep to compose everything. He tacks on whatever he can that shows how tall the boy is getting, how his hair has turned more and more sandy blond, and how he's bonded with Chris's nieces and nephews to the point that little Grace refuses to accept that there was ever a time Jim wasn't there.

(She reads them all, but ignores the pictures. She doesn't want them or the reminder that she's not there to witness her son growing up in person. The letters, at least, feel like she's reading a book, reading about someone else's life that she's got nothing to do with.

It hurts less that way.

And they're what the guards find open on the little table in her cell the morning after Winona dies, those letters; she dies of an sudden, massive heart attack, but there's a whisper that goes around the colony that it was sadness that killed her in the end.)


	5. Part Three

Jim is twelve when Winona dies and he's laying on the floor of the observation deck with a brand new PADD under his nose. Around him, a group of children, aged six to eighteen, are working on their homework assignments, but he'd finished his far quicker than the rest of them and has turned now to reading the latest letter from his cousin Emily.

He doesn't think anything of the faint chill he feels—it's probably just Alison having fiddled with the atmospheric controls again—though he does actually put on his hoodie rather than continuing to lay on it, before continuing to read the latest in Pike family news.

Then the door to the deck opens and his father is standing there. His face is grim and Jim tries to think if he's done anything lately to cause trouble, though he doesn't think he has. (Seriously, getting a talking to from Number One was the most uncomfortable moment in his life and he's been actively trying to avoid getting another. Not that Alison and Rob have been helping with that.)

"Jim," Chris calls, gesturing Jim over with a hand.

"Dude, what did you do this time?"

Jim turns wide eyes on his friend and shakes his head because he's got no clue, but he has no intention of making it worse. He grabs his PADD and his backpack, steps over Nathan and Savek, and takes the hand Chris holds out to him; he's pulled into the corridor and then into the lift.

"Dad?"

Chris shakes his head and Jim quiets, worried now.

It's a short trip to quarters from the lift, and there, Jim drops his bag and sits down in the chair he'd claimed for himself at the start of the tour eighteen months ago. Chris sits down too, on the coffee table which sets off alarm bells in Jim's mind because _no one_ is allowed to sit on the coffee table. Jim's not even allowed to put clean feet on.

"Jim, a little while ago, Jason Hughes called."

"Mom's 'fleet lawyer?"

"Yes."

Jim swallows. This isn't good and his mind gets moving, coming up with bad scenario after worse scenario and before Chris can get a word out, Jim's convinced himself that he's about to be taken away from his father.

He feels relieved when he's told, "Jim, your mother died this morning."

"Oh."

Chris lays a hand on Jim's knee. "You want to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?" Jim blinks and admits, "Dad, to me, she died a long time ago. I mean, she never even tried to talk to me, not even on my birthday and she could have. If she really wanted to, she could have and she didn't."

"She was still your mother."

"And I can barely remember her." Jim shrugs.

Chris leans forward, elbows on his knees and his hands hanging between them, and asks, "Do you want to go to the funeral?"

This Jim thinks about for a few moments: it'd be closure, seeing her for the last time, knowing that the spectre in one of his nightmares cannot come back. That she can't take him away from his father. But as he'd said, she'd died a long time ago in his mind and all he has now are a few fuzzy memories of blonde hair and hazel eyes and a sad smile. She's just not real to him anymore.

"No."

"If you don't want to go because I can't, Jim, Aunt Lauren already said she'd..."

Jim shakes his head, drawing a leg up onto the chair after kicking off his slip-on trainers. "It's not that. I just... don't need it."

"Okay, son," Chris tells him and thinks to himself, _This is his choice. You promised him that he could start making some of his own choices and this one has to be his._

Chris lets the silence linger for a few seconds, waiting to see if there's anything else Jim wants to say. Instead of anything about Winona, he's asked, "Can we have pizza for dinner?" and the conversation is clearly over.

He gives a little grin at the question. "Oh, god, not another growth spurt—you're going to eat us out of ship and home soon!" Chris teases, getting up and tossing the command golds into the laundry chute.

Pizza is Jim's ultimate junk food, something he only craves at the times when he's about to grow a damned inch overnight.

"I'll settle for chocolate cake."

"You'll settle for something with a vegetable."

"No broccoli!"

(This is the routine they are going through several nights later when Jason sends through the last bit of paperwork, the death certificate, the prison record. There's a few pictures from the Warden, and a note that a package with her personal effects from the cell will be sent to their apartment in San Francisco.

Chris waits until Jim is eating the burger they'd brought back to quarters from the mess to open the documents and begin reading; his got his glasses on, and it's as he rolls over a picture of Winona on the PADD that he notices Jim's furtive glances.

"Do you want to see her?"

Jim hesitates, and Chris puts the PADD, screen side down on the table, before getting up. "I'm going to take a shower before I eat," he says, ruffling Jim's hair as he walks by, "Next shore leave, you're getting a hair cut."

When he returns, the PADD is in Jim's hands; he blinks up at Chris and asks, "Did she love me?"

"So much, Jim, that I don't know if she knew how to deal with it." He pulls Jim to the couch, sits beside him, and tells him, "Your mom... she loved your brother and he died, and she loved your father and he died, and I think for her, in the end, the only way she could show how much she love she had was to protect you no matter the cost."

"I said I don't want to go to the funeral and I mean it, but maybe one day I'd like to see where she grew up."

"You tell me when you're ready and I will make it happen, Jim."

"Thanks, Dad." He bites at his lower lip, worrying the skin, then asks, "Are there any pictures of my brother on here?"

They spend the rest of the night looking at every picture Chris can find from the Kirks and the Lawsons.)

* * *

They finish out their research and short-range exploration mission and arrive back at Earth right on time for the crew to go through debrief, pack, and get the hell home for the holidays. For Chris, this means the annual battle of getting Jim to get a haircut before taking off for Lauren's house in Mojave.

"You know, Aunt Lauren doesn't care if I've got shaggy hair."

"You know, I don't care if Aunt Lauren doesn't care. You're getting a haircut or I get the window seat on the shuttle."

"You fight dirty, Dad."

"One day you will have a teenager to deal with, and on that day, I will take great delight in listening to you argue about haircuts with him," Chris replies from his room, where his bed is covered in a mess of clothing, duffel bags, toiletries and linens.

They spend the next little while packing, Jim trying to decide between the Academy hoodie he'd lifted from Chris's closet and the zip up with the guitars on it that Uncle Rich had bought him for his last birthday instead of whether or not to pack his good pants along with his jeans. (For the record, he'll forget and Chris will want to bash his own head, once again, into a wall when the rest of the family wanders off to put on their formal wear for pictures and Jim's dressed in a dress shirt and jeans.) At least, that's what he's doing when there's a knock at their door.

Jim shouts, "I'll get it," as he takes off down the hall.

But Chris is right on his heels, saying, "No, I'll get it."

"Too old, too slow."

Chris trips him for that remark, not even sorry when Jim hits the area rug. "What was that?" he asks as he unlocks the door and opens it for the Starfleet Officer on the other side.

"Captain Pike?"

"Yes?"

The courier holds out a PADD for him to sign, then passes over the case for a data chip. There's the _For Your Eyes Only_ marker on top and he groans.

Just great. The 'fleet has seriously piss-poor timing.

"Sorry, sir. Happy holidays."

"Yeah, you too."

The door closes and Chris hits the lock, wondering what the hell Starfleet has planned that couldn't wait until after he'd had leave. He flips the case in his hand and, nope, nothing else on it besides the FYEO marker, which means this is classified.

Great.

"Jim..."

"Yeah, I know," he says, giving the case in his father's hand a dirty look before returning to his room and his packing; he shuts his bedroom door as Chris had taught him to do whenever something comes in with that marker, and he crosses his mental fingers that they'll at least get to make the trip down to his Aunt's house.

(The datachip holds a file, just one. It's instructions and a time frame and a list of names of those who will accompany him on this mission. And Chris really, really hates the 'fleet when he spies the date and realizes that he's going to miss Jim's birthday because their ship-out date is the day before.

He sighs, getting a flash of Starfleet Law in his head: If everything seems to be going well, don't be happy—the 'fleet's timing will quickly turn that around.)

They pack, they spend the holidays with Chris's sisters, and when it's over and Melody and her family board a shuttle that will take them to the transport which will then head back to Tarsus IV, Jim is set to board with them. He's jittery though and not entirely sure why he feels like something bad is looming on the horizon; he clings to Chris for a few extra seconds when they hug goodbye, as if something is telling him to take the strength he can from his father right now.

"Hey, what is it?" Chris asks when he tries to pull back from the hug only to be gripped tighter.

"It's..." Jim shakes his head. "I don't know."

Chris kisses Jim's temple, then pulls back and grips his son's shoulder. "It's going to be fine."

"I know."

"Be good for Aunt Melody, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I love you, son, and I will see you in ten weeks," Chris tells him, then adds, "But if you need something—anything—call Uncle Rich. Or Admiral Archer."

"Okay." Jim blushes a little at the declaration of love since he's at that age, but nods and steals another hug before racing up the ramp into the shuttle.

Chris will never tell Jim that in that moment, he too felt an overwhelming moment of dread, but he'd brushed it off, thinking to himself that he's just being overprotective.

Later, he will regret this very much.

* * *

(This is where the news media will finally get something right.

The disaster on Tarsus IV is not the sole reason Chris decides that he will take a job at Headquarters for a time. It really isn't. But it factored into the decision just a little bit, and they're right in the reports when they say that Jim's health had been the deciding factor in the end.

Granted, they don't know that it had also been Boyce, looking at him with concern, and Number One's calm reciting of reality that had tipped him over the edge. That this last thing had pushed Chris into spending most of ship's night making calls to other Captains and Admirals, trying to find a way to stay on Earth for a little while because otherwise he'd have to leave Jim behind and that simply was not going to happen.

The media, of course, does get some things wrong: they say the disaster had affected him with the deaths of his sister and brother-in-law, that identifying his nephew's body had left him with anger toward Starfleet; Archer will send out official memos on Starfleet letterhead correcting them, because this part Chris wants corrected. It wasn't Starfleet he blamed then, and he still doesn't hold them responsible now.

He reserves all that for himself.

But before all that, there is a mission to Risa and Chris doesn't think much of the fact that he hasn't heard from Jim in more than a week. The kid's fourteen, he's a teenager, and he's been good but starting to push his boundaries, which Chris absolutely understands.

Still, he figures he'll call today and check in.)

There's no communication coming out of Tarsus, and getting something in is taking everything Starfleet can manage. Blackwell is having fits and Barnett is all but tapdancing his way to his ship with Archer sneaking clearance to Space Dock; the clamps are off and they're at warp before anyone even realizes his heading. There's a dozen messages about insubordination and decorum and under it all, Rich easily reads the undercurrent of _Get there. Get there as fast as you can. We don't know how many are dead._

He swallows thickly, squeezing the arms of the chair as he processes the names not only of Jim Kirk through his mind but of dozens of other Starfleet dependents: the colony had been built through Starfleet channels with Starfleet engineers and Starfleet families. It was a Starfleet experiment, honestly, a chance to see if they could actually build this type of colony on land that had to be terraformed in order to grow crops; it's a research colony in the end, created with hopes of finding ways to advance their current pool of knowledge.

To say it came out of the _Kelvin_ isn't entirely right, but after the destruction of the ship, so much in Starfleet had changed. They were exploring further and funding more research, upgrading weapons on some of the ships and there were even whispers of building ships purely for combat.

It's terrifying.

"Sir, we'll be in orbit over Tarsus IV in three minutes."

"Yellow alert," he orders, forcing the bile down and sitting up straighter.

"Yes, sir."

If the next three minutes are the longest of Rich's life, then the ones after are the fastest and he fights to keep his head in the game. It all comes so fast and furious, from the second the landing party beams down: there's a security team that's racing through compounds, hunting Kodos, and the medical staff is nearly overrun by dying mothers with dying children; there's barely a moment to breathe as his communications officers start sending out message after message telling Starfleet to send whomever they can, and someone reports from the mess what they have and what they can feed the starving and there's rations and protein nibs, and there's a comm chiming somewhere and...

Rich holds his hands out to stop the onslaught. "One. At a time," he says, proud when his officers take a second to huddle and determine what's more important and line up in that order. "Okay. Take me through it."

The situation, they tell him, is dire. A fungus had destroyed the crops and Kodos, rather than contact Starfleet within days of the failure, had instituted martial law, then quietly gathered his most loyal and outlined a plan of eugenics. Of who would live and who would die.

"There's less than four thousand down there and no one is in good shape. Doctor Caine says we need every person Starfleet Medical can spare," Janet, the senior nurse, explains.

Duncan, a wet-behind-the-ears security ensign, adds, "The number is a rough estimate too, sir. Apparently there's a ton of people who took off when the death squad came and are hiding out in the plains—there's a whole cave network that we're going to have to search."

This is a catastrophe. Pure and simple.

"All right. We'll have reinforcements here in a few hours. Until then, Medical, get a triage area set up and do whatever is necessary within the confines of our current supplies. Duncan, tell Chief Alexanders that we need to get a secure zone set up. Start with the main compound and work further out. Make sure there is a team searching for Kodos at all times. I want this bastard found yesterday." He looks over to Rustico and dismisses the others, then seals the Bridge and tells his Lieutenant, "Get me Admiral Archer."

It doesn't take long for the man to pop onto the forward viewscreen. He looks drawn and pissed off, and it takes Rich a minute to realize that Archer isn't at HQ but on a ship himself. "That bad, sir?"

"I'm headed to the _Endeavor_." He doesn't say that he's trying to reach Chris and Derek Anders on their mission before this shitstorm comes out publicly. "How bad is it?"

"I don't think there's a word in Standard to describe it accurately."

"Death toll?"

"Over half the colony. We don't have solid numbers and we won't for a while due to several factors, but as soon as I know, I'll pass it on to Admiral Blackwell." He settles into his chair, saying, "We haven't been given the names of ships being sent yet."

"Right now, it's the _Armstrong_ , the _Yorktown_ , and the _Farragut_. They were the first three that could be fueled and loaded. I'll have the _Endeavor_ and the _Truman_ a few hours behind." Archer rubs his eyes. "We've contacted Vulcan and they're prepared to lend whatever help they can should we need it."

"We may need their help with the critically ill."

"Ambassador Sarek is standing by for any requests."

Rich nods. "ETA on the other ships?"

"Twelve to fourteen hours. So do what you have to in order to stabilize things down there for now. Once the _Armstrong_ arrives, get your crew on disaster protocol."

The wince is held back by an act of God, because really, disaster protocol... that's not just triage tents and getting people out of there, it's getting a working hospital up and running and doing things in waves. It's contacting family members, getting psych staff in here, social workers, and organizing housing.

This is long term.

This is going to be hell.


	6. Interlude Three

Derek takes the news far better than Chris does, which surprises Archer actually: Derek's wife and four children, his brother and his brother's husband, they're all on Tarsus, and somehow the older Captain manages to keep him upright and calm. He asks if there's been contact with the colonists already or if he'll be contacted when it becomes possible.

Chris barely makes it to the nearest trash receptacle before upchucking the entire contents of his stomach and then some. Long strings of stomach acid and bile hang off his lips as he finishes, fingers milk white where they clutch the edge of the receptacle and Jonathan can tell they're cramped when Chris forces himself to take the offered handkerchief.

"I've got Captain Delacroix and Admiral Rowe outside. They need to talk to both of you, figure out where we are with negotiations, and then I've got the _Truman_ in orbit with the _Endeavor_. Starfleet's ordered both ships to Tarsus to help with the disaster." He opens a container of water and hands it over to Chris, watching the other man swish and spit before continuing, "We're 26 hours out. We should have some ideas about survivors soon, but literally half the colony has been killed."

"So be prepared," Derek translates, grimly. He looks right at Chris, then down at his shoes; Archer wonders if it's starting to sink in, the very real 50-50 chance that the people he loves most in the world are gone. (Honestly, his taking it well had been a surprise and Jonathan doubts that Derek's resolve will last—shock, after all, eventually gives way to a torrent of emotions.)

"Go brief them. Once you're done, Anders, there is a shuttle waiting to take you back to the _Truman_." He glances at Pike. "We're handing command of the _Endeavor_ for this mission over to Lieutenant Robbins. You're just a passenger on this one."

"Yes, sir," Chris manages to say, voice a little rough from the force of his earlier vomiting.

They're dismissed with a last, "Twenty-six hours from the second we're aboard, gentlemen," and they both take off for their relief, knowing every moment they take is another moment wasted when they could be on the ships and in transit. And there's no time to waste. Not right now.

(In the end, it's twenty-six hours and sixteen minutes. They don't even collect the belongings they'd brought to the meeting.)


	7. Part Four

The mission is in day eight and Rich finally feels like they're starting to get somewhere. They've got a solid tally of survivors, cross-referenced against the lists Kodos had left behind in his official residence, and some of the people who've been hiding out in the caves have started to come in from the cold. With the added supplies from Starfleet Command, they'd been able to get through the first waves of injured and now worked in conjunction with the Vulcans to ferry out the sickest for care.

Anders' family has been located. Two of his kids had remained with their mother and Uncle Mark; Derek's brother Paul is dead, but the other two kids are missing.

Also missing is Jim Kirk.

But there's reports of a group of children led by a teenager out in the caves and as the security crews search out the survivors, they catch glimpses of dirty, skinny children who scamper away, terrified. Whether they're part of the aforementioned group is unknown, though it does seem to confirm its existence. That, however, is neither here nor there, all that matters to the Captains is that somewhere in this mess are more children that need food and medical care.

It's probably desperation by the _Endeavor_ 's crew, begging for at least one miracle to come out of this, that they start leaving care packages out at nightfall. They do it in their uniforms, talking loudly so if any of their kids _are_ out there, they might come to friends, and they are slow to leave. They never bring phasers nor cuffs nor anything that could be misconstrued as the gear previously used by the death squads.

(The psych staff have been adamant about the mental status of the people coming out the caves. The ones that'd stayed within the boundary lines had been Kodos' chosen. They'd had some access to food—enough, but just barely—and had little threat of death. The ones in the plains were on the Kill List. They were marked. Now, they are scared and only patience can draw them out.

That said, they still allow the crew to leave out gifts of food, clothing, matchsticks, and water out in the middle of nowhere at night, even when they should be using all of the goods to draw them out into the open.)

It's still harrowing to hear the cries of wildlife at night and know that there are children out there who were marked to be slaughtered and instead now fight to survive against everyone, including their would-be Starfleet rescuers.

That thought, by the way, is what drives Chris out into the dark one night with Rich, Archer, and Lieutenant Harville, and a duffel bag filled with the allergen-free foods that Jim would recognize as having come from somewhere safe. He doesn't know how much of Jim is keyed into staying alive and he doesn't know if his son would even recognize words at this point, if his brain would comprehend a note if it was left, but food... that's something the brain ties memories to and Chris hopes he can trigger some.

Seriously, he'd driven Chef nuts in the mess all day trying to get everything to taste the way it should.

He drops the bag by a tree, calling out, "Jim, dinnertime!" like he's done so many times before.

Then, he backs away and turns, walks back to the others and closes his eyes as he thinks, _Please, Jim..._

No one comes out, and his heart sinks.

But in the morning, the bag is gone and Chris resolves right then and there that he's going to keep trying because until he's got Jim's body, he has to believe that Jim's out there and with his son's allergies, he's probably had even less to eat than the others. Besides, cooking gives Chris something to focus on that isn't his all-encompassing terror at the total lack of control he has right now, and for Archer and Barnett, it's worth the worries voiced by the _Endeavor_ 's mess staff.

They make the time to come down with him at night, Harville rotating out with Pacheco and Reese and Coulson. They help him package up juices and whole fruit, dry cheese sandwiches, and roasted chickpeas, help him clear ideas with Medical as he works within their guidelines. Boyce shows up at one point and lifts an eyebrow at the soup that Chris is carefully ladling into small containers, but says nothing and takes up a station cutting potatoes.

(He cooks anything and everything, actually, and what he doesn't pack to take to the caves goes to the crew and the survivors. Surprisingly, all of it is good.)

By day fourteen, there's still no confirmation that Jim is alive and Rich can see it weighing on Chris's shoulders, the crushing reality that Jim might not be out there at all. He carries the bag that night, and calls out to Jim to come eat, and he's the one walking away when there's a rustle at his back.

Dead grass, being stepped on. The sound is unmistakeable and he stops, looks up at Chris who is moving closer, moving slowly but surely and then Chris is running and there's Jim running.

"Dad. Daddaddad," Jim's muttering into Chris's neck and it's like his brain is rebooting, coming online, remembering that he does in fact have a father.

"I'm here, son," Chris gets out. "I'm so sorry. I'm here."

"Dad." Jim clings tighter and Phil's shot right back to that day years ago, when Chris and Jim had finally slotted into place into each other's lives. Somehow, even with that memory in his mind, he finds the strength to move and he's scanning Jim before the kid—or Chris—can argue, and despite the added rustling of the grass, the children appearing now that Jim has shown that it's safe, he stays there.

No sudden movements.

Then two more kids latch onto Chris, his niece and one of his nephews, and the mood shatters. The kids are all crying now, clamoring for attention from the few of them there; Rich calls for back up and Phil has to stop logging the progressively worse issues the tricorder's picking up to pick up a tiny girl with sunburn on her face.

He keeps an eye on Jim, though, waiting for the teen to drop; Jim's dehydrated, anemic, malnourished, running a fever, flush with infection, and he's running on pure adrenaline at this point. It is, without a doubt, only a matter of time before he collapses and Phil hopes that it's after they get these kids back to the hospital.

(They're not that lucky. They've never been that lucky. Phil's not sure they'll ever _be_ that lucky.)

Jim goes down half way back to the compound and Chris, despite being incredibly exhausted himself, won't allow anyone to touch his son. His exact words.

* * *

Phil gets Chris away from the social workers and psychologists as soon as he can; he can see how Chris curls his fingers into the shoulder of Jim's worn-out hoodie whenever someone gets too close and Phil knows Chris is holding onto his control by a thread. It's just a matter of time before it snaps.

Jim, by this time, has been settled into a bed and loaded with IVs and he's conscious enough to know if Chris is more than six inches away, pitching a (weak, unnecessary, detrimental-to-his-goddamn-health) fit should that distance grow wider. He proves what Phil had figured when Jim chokes down some orange wedges and throws them right back up, tries a sip of water and gags, and after a while, Phil, mercifully, knocks him out with a hefty dose of sedatives.

"This is long haul, Chris." He holds up his hands to forestall Pike's argument. "I know we've already discussed it, but this is more complex than I thought—he's in a cyclical vomiting flare-up so we're at increased risk of refeeding syndrome, his anemia was barely under control before all this and it's not going to help matters right now, and his kidneys are not putting out any urine at this point which means we may be looking at an organ crisis."

"Shit."

"Yeah. Your boy is in for a long recovery. We can get him through, but this isn't what either of us has been hoping for and that's not even taking into account the mental aspects."

There's an undercurrent of something to his CMO's words, only Chris is too tired and nursing one hell of a headache to figure it out on his own. He opens his mouth to speak...

...and Number One tells him, "You'll need to take leave from the ship."

She doesn't flinch when he turns his eyes on her, never has, and continues on, "He will need months, perhaps up to a year or more, of care. And while we could certainly give him physical care on the _Endeavor_ , you and I both know that he will not do well without access to all the staff necessary."

Fuck.

Yeah, Jim's going to need extensive therapy and they have a psychologist and a psychiatrist aboard ship, but they're not trained for this. Not for kids and PTSD and starvation and _cannibalism_... Jim can't go far from Starfleet Medical Headquarters for the foreseeable future.

This is going to go over like a lead-fucking-balloon.

"How long is he out for?"

"Long enough."

Chris nods, moving back to his son's bedside and running a hand over the too-long hair. It's thinned, he realizes, from the malnutrition and he swallows around the lump in his throat, whispering, "I'll be back soon, Jim. I just have to contact a few people, okay? I'll be right back to you." He brushes a blond curl away from Jim's eye, and Number One appears on the other side of the bed; she settles into a chair with a PADD in her hands and gives Chris a look that is staunch dismissal.

Slowly feeling the edges of his training creep back in, Chris goes and begins to write a list in his head of all the people he needs to contact in order to get clearance to stay Earthside as he makes his way to the ship. He feels stronger and more at ease, his heart not quite so tightly held in his chest, and he breathes for a second, just standing there on the transporter pad, before moving out of the way of the incoming Medical staff—shift change—and makes his way to quarters.

It will be hours more than he'd thought to get through to everyone and by the time he finishes, he realizes why: his crew, his absolutely fucking amazing crew, had been making their own calls en masse leading to the lag time between the ship and the Admiralty.

"We're putting her in for repairs and upgrades. Strangely," Blackwell tells him, smirk firmly affixed, "it would seem that your engineering department have been clumsier than usual. Looks like there's a myriad of issues that have to be tackled and we might as well do it now, before any serious problems arise."

"Sir?"

"The _Endeavor_ is due for so much, it seems, that with our shipyards at capacity, that it'll be a month or two before there's a berth to take her and we've got eight to ten months for servicing."

Chris blinks.

A year. They're looking at a year of downtime.

"Yes, sir."

Blackwell shifts in his seat and the look on his face softens. "Off the record, Chris, you've got a good crew. They're looking out for everyone affected."

A half-smile comes unbidden to Chris's lips. "I know."

"Get some sleep, kid. We're going to start ferrying people in and out soon and we'll need you to get back to the chair—your Number One is a good officer, but I think you may have a mutiny on your hands if you don't resume command sometime soon."

"She'll make a great Captain one day," Chris says.

"Never said she wouldn't." Blackwell leans back in his chair, eyeing Pike critically. "You know when we promoted you, it was only gut instinct that told me you'd make a good Captain. You were a fantastic first officer and you were the most efficient member of the recruiting office that they'd ever seen. The rest of the Admirals... they thought you were still too young, had too much to learn.

"You proved them wrong within a year. That attack on the ship... We've never gotten so many glowing reports from a crew before. It took me three days to get through it all and even Donaldson got starry-eyed when I told them." He pauses for a second, taking a long breath and sighing. "Chris, your crew is willing to follow you to hell and back. Number One will be a Captain one day, but the _Endeavor_ is yours."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you when you get back."

"Yes, sir."

"Stop saying yes, sir and get some sleep. That's an order—you'll be of no use to Jim or your crew if you're dead on your feet."

Chris smiles and doesn't say, 'yes, sir,' like he wants, but ends the transmission with a wave before crawling into his bed, relaxed for the first time in days.

* * *

The first group of evacuees is, for lack of a better word, giddy to get aboard the ship. They just about fall over themselves with thanks for their quarters and the ones in Medical barely make a peep, going along with whatever Boyce decrees as part of their treatment.

Okay, so that's a lie—all but one person goes along with it.

"James, you get back in that bed right now."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll hypo your teenage ass into submission."

Wrong thing to say and Phil realizes it, in glorious technicolor, as the words seem to fly out of his mouth of their own volition. He sucks in a breath, blinks at Jim, and then they're both running at full speed through the corridors.

"Slow the hell down, Jim. Goddamnit, you're being ridiculous!"

Jim doesn't answer, just bounces off a wall, charging down the intersecting corridor, but with the muscle loss he's suffered, he can't keep up the speed; he slows down outside the forward observation deck, hands on his knees as he wheezes and gasps.

"Stubborn, self-destructive..." Phil grouses as he pushes Jim down to the floor.

The kid breathes easier once his back is against a bulkhead and his head is thrown back against the metal, but he doesn't fight the injection of steroid to ease the inflamed passages. Phil's grumpy frown is familiar and soothing and Jim feels the tears coming on.

"Aw hell, Jim," Phil mutters, sitting down at Jim's side and throwing an arm over his shoulders. "You want to tell me why you're being such a pain in my ass?"

Jim shrugs.

"Jim."

"Can't I go back to quarters? Dad's on Alpha shift—I'll probably still be asleep when he gets back from the Bridge."

A sigh, then, "Listen to me: there is nothing I want more than to let you go back to quarters. I know you'd do better there and I know you'd be happier there, but, Jim, you know why I can't release you."

And he does. His father had been sure to explain everything to Jim, right down to the necessary twice daily monitoring of his kidneys and the cutting of Jim's matted, lice infested hair. It doesn't mean he likes or agrees with it.

"I could wear monitors. They'd be hooked into Medical Bay..."

"Jim, no. Just... no." Phil frowns. "Your dad... Jim, the best thing you can do for yourself and for him is to stay in Medical where he knows you are safe and being looked after."

"I would be..."

"He was 619'd."

That throws Jim off. "What?"

"Your dad was so worried about you that he went full on emotionally compromised. Because of regs, they'd already put Number One in charge of the mission, but Chris was to remain in command of the ship for everything _not_ pertaining to Tarsus." He looks at Jim, the kid's eyes wide and unsure. "He nearly threw up on Archer when he was told."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He was... frantic once we got to Tarsus and you weren't in the triage tents. He went through every list we had, nearly lost it on Command when they told him to remain shipside while they worked on getting the people out of the caves. So, yeah, Jim, I'm keeping you in Medical when I could set up equipment in your room, because none of us want to see him like that again. You are safe, warm, fed, and under the watch of so many people who actually do give a damn about you that he can do his job without worry."

Jim swallows thickly, letting that information really sink in and his heart twists: his dad had always seemed so invincible and unable to be broken. To be emotionally compromised... Jim looks to Phil, unsure what to say because, seriously, 619'd and transported on his own ship while his XO ran the mission, that was heavy.

"We've got our stop over on Vulcan and then we'll be home. It'll be two days, Jim, that's all. I like to think you can put up with me for two days," Phil tells him finally, draping an arm over the kid's shoulders and pulling Jim toward him.

"Two days?"

"Two days."

(It ends up being 39 hours with the speed that Chris pushes the ship—they've got a number of stabilized critical on the ship, but they're still considered critical enough that the faster they're back at HQ the better—and Jim kind of wishes it'd been longer.)


	8. Interlude Four

Chris buys a house at the edge of Mojave.

It's a twenty-five minute drive to Lauren's, more than he'd wanted, but doable, and it's a decent sized house with big portrait windows and walls that slide open and that's what he'd wanted. There's a yard and paddocks that he talks about filling with horses, and when Jim gets released from Medical three weeks after being admitted, they leave San Fran behind with barely a glance back.

Honestly, they don't. They hit the freeway and Chris opens all the windows, wind whipping his hair around and Jim's laughing and Phil's smirking and for the first time in weeks, things feel normal. (Okay, so Jim's got a PICC line still firmly planted in his chest, Phil's got bags under his eyes from running around like a lunatic from the moment they hit atmo at Tarsus IV, and Chris needs five minutes alone with his sister because she's suddenly gone from two kids to four and they're both grieving for Melody and Peter and John, but this is far closer to normal than it'd been at HQ.)

"Okay, this is awesome," Jim says when they pull up and Lauren's sitting on the front steps with the walls open and light filtering out into the early evening just enough to navigate up to the house.

"I thought you'd like it." Chris smiles at him, the ball of ice in his chest beginning to thaw, and he adds, "There's one more thing I haven't told you about yet."

Phil groans—he already knows what it is and he'd seriously tried to stop it—then rolls his eyes when Chris swats at him from the driver's seat.

"There's more?"

"Well,one thing more."

He gets out of the car, popping the trunk but leaving the bags within for now, before crossing to Jim's side and helping him out. Still weak but better than he'd been not too long ago, he makes it to the fence on his own before letting Chris help support him as they walk up the path toward the open living room.

Lauren greets them with an armful of black and white puppy.

A dalmatian, blue-eyed and sleepy, peeks out at the approaching men and suddenly perks up; she wiggles around until she's released, racing over, and bouncing happily around Jim's feet.

"A dog? We have a dog?"

Chris nods, face scrunched up with amusement as he watches Jim drop unceremoniously to the ground in order to play with the pup. He doesn't mention that the dog had been Archer's idea, a sort of therapy animal for Jim so he'd have someone to focus on who had no ties to Tarsus IV whatsoever. Chris makes a mental note to never question the man again when it comes to things like this, though he's still not completely sure how they're going to handle having a pet.

(Phil, honestly, foresees a lot of morning walks in his future considering that neither Chris nor Jim are morning people by any stretch of the imagination.)

"What's her name?"

"You tell me."

Jim looks at the puppy for a moment, laughing as she twists around on the dirt in an effort to chase his fingers, and then declares, "Her name's Trouble."

It ends up being quite fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here, guys. Unfortunately I've been having a string of panic attacks and other stresses that have just eaten away at my ability to sit still for long enough to get more than a few words out at a time. :/ I am trying to really get myself to calm enough to continue, but I can't promise it won't end up being a long wait again. My apologies.
> 
> Update 10-25-13: So after several months of ruminating and stressing, I realized just what was bothering me about this story-Don't Raise Heroes was meant to end here, however, since I clearly have no intentions of ending the series, it is merely the point where the next story begins. So, I apologize for the long wait. I will-soon-get the next story up for everyone to enjoy tentatively titled _In Your Eyes_.


End file.
